"The demon was out of the ordinary, a demon we have never seen before, Mistress. It was much stronger than even the toughest demon lord. But I am familiar with it now and can better perform my duties should we encounter another one."
He could practically feel her bristling with disapproval at his outspokenness, but she did not hold his contract and so could not punish him. "See that he gets a proper meal when he can eat." She left without further word, had probably not even thought to ask how Neikirk was feeling. Neikirk doubted she even knew that the incantations he'd cast had caused him pain.
But he had not really expected it. Neikirk was not sorry he had become an alchemist, but he was always painfully aware of what it had cost him. Alchemists were property, not people. Anyone born with the potential to be an alchemist was pressed into service, either serving the crown directly or sold off to private sponsors. Anyone caught performing magic unsanctioned suffered imprisonment at best. Magic was too dangerous to be in the hands of citizens, and so they were made property.
Despite that, Neikirk had, for the most part, always enjoyed his work. He was also extremely good at it, which was why he had been put up for auction, rather than just placed in the royal military. It had terrified him when he had been informed and he had felt close to passing out when he'd been put on the auction block and the bidding had begun. He could see by the expressions of most of the bidders just what they planned on doing with him. Alchemists were status symbols, play things; certain behaviors were easily overlooked by the government because turning a blind eye benefited them.
He had been close to tears when he saw who would likely win the bidding, a nasty looking fellow who had not once stopped leering, when Cerant's voice and its obvious Vindeian accent had cut through the crowd. The way he had almost lazily doubled the current bid had shocked everyone into silence.
Cerant had always treated him like an equal and never really understood or tolerated when others did not do the same. He provided Neikirk with his own rooms, his own funds, did not dictate his experiments or use him as a bed warmer. Neikirk had been thrilled with that in the beginning—and gone mad with frustration much later.
And of course, the moment he had been about to get what he had longed for, demons attacked.
Sighing, Neikirk left the food in the kitchen and returned to the bedroom. Cerant's eyes had closed again and he did not look as though he would be waking any time soon. Neikirk combed through Cerant's dark-auburn hair, smoothing out the tussled mess, then traced the lines of his face.
"Neikirk …" Cerant mumbled in his soft, sleepy voice, then seemed to sigh and settle even more comfortably into his rest. Neikirk permitted himself a small smile. Retrieving his tea, he sat down and finally picked up his lists, adding to them, starting new ones for incantations he wanted to modify to better work against the new type of demon.
He also made notes about people to contact about the new demon, though the list was woefully short. When he was done with all of his lists, he picked up his latest grimoire and flipped to the section where he had been logging all his work on his lightning incantation. Eventually, he knew, he would be ecstatic it had worked. At present, his only concern was being able to do it again.
Neikirk jerked awake when someone shook him and stared blankly for a moment at Cerant. Then he leveled Cerant with a stern look. "You should not be out of bed, Master. You need rest."
"I'm fine, if a bit sore. Better than you, I daresay, if you were idiot enough to sit in that chair all night after casting such powerful incantations. You must ache head to toe, my dear." He ruffled Neikirk's short hair. "Come on, I think we both need a good soak in the hot springs."
"Yes, Master," Neikirk replied and hid a wince as he stood up, almost wishing he had gone to bed—but more furious with himself for dozing off when he was supposed to have been watching over Cerant all night. "Are you truly feeling better, Master, or simply being stubborn as usual? I feared the healing would not help your internal injuries soon enough."
Cerant smiled at him and reached out to ruffle Neikirk's hair again. "I am fine, my dear, as ever when in your more than capable hands. Cease to worry about me and worry about yourself for once."
Neikirk nodded and headed for his own room, where he stripped off his clothes and pulled on an old tunic, then gathered up his bathing items. At the last minute, he carried along a bag of jewels on the chance they ran into trouble.
Joining Cerant in the yard behind the house, they walked along the footpath up into the foothills of the mountains. It was a good half-mark walk, but worth it on the rare occasion they felt like walking so far for a bath. Reaching the cluster of caves and outcroppings that formed natural pools of hot, bubbling water, they washed quickly in a nearby spring before settling in for a good soak.
Neikirk sighed as the springs did their work, slowly easing the aches of casting hard incantations at rapid fire pace followed by a night spent in a stiff chair.
"So do my memories deceive, or did you keep me alive by succeeding at your lightning incantation?"
"I did cast it successfully," Neikirk replied. "I am sorry—"
"Do not be sorry about anything," Cerant cut in. "You were magnificent and the only reason I am still alive. Without you I would be dead. I was never much a warrior and unfortunately it shows."
Neikirk said nothing.
Cerant gave him a look. "You've been working on that incantation for years. I have seen you try and fail more times than I care to count to create it, embed it, and properly cast it."
"It needs a lot of refining," Neikirk said. "I was only barely able to make it go where I wanted—to cast it at all. The incantation fights me every step of the way. It will be a long time before it is a reliable enough incantation for you to sell off."
"I have no intention of selling anything of yours unless that is what you want, and you damn well know it, brat," Cerant said. "Stop making up excuses and be happy with your accomplishment. You deserve to be happy about it."
Neikirk replied, "It will take weeks to rebuild and embed it, along with all the other ones I used up."
"My dear, do not cross a river until you come to it. Enjoy the moments that you can. You should be proud of yourself. The new problems we face should not hinder pride in your abilities."
Allowing a faint smile, pleased despite himself by Cerant's praise, Neikirk said, "Yes, Master."
"Good," Cerant said and relaxed, resting his head against a bit of smooth, curved stone and closing his eyes.
Neikirk stared up at the sky, the lazily drifting clouds and a cluster of birds, enjoying the comfortable silence.
He startled several minutes later when Cerant said quietly, "I have a younger brother."
Surprised jolted through Neikirk and sped up the beating of his heart, for Cerant had never offered up such information before. Neikirk knew only that he was wealthy and from Vindeia. He had long suspected that Cerant had not left home willingly and could not return. Cerant had finally confirmed that point right before the demon attacked. What was he had said—that his life was forfeit if he returned to Vindeia, that was it. But Neikirk said nothing, only let Cerant keep speaking, afraid he might stop if impeded.
"My brother always hated me, the attention I got, that I dared to be born first and left him to be the spare child. When I was eighteen, nearly nineteen, a young girl barely fourteen years old claimed I had gotten her with child. Though I can never prove it, I feel my brother was the one ultimately responsible for what happened with that poor girl."
"That makes no sense, Master," Neikirk said. He had always favored men and women himself, like most people. Cerant had never displayed any sort of sexual interest in women. It had always vaguely amused Neikirk, but suddenly it no longer seemed so.
Cerant's face twisted with unpleasant memories. "It caused an outrage, not least of all because the girl was from an important family. I was ordered to admit my foul deeds and marry the girl, but refused because I had done no wrong. Many stepped forward to defend me, but just as many came forward to verify events that I knew had never transpired. Most believed me, but the evidence to prove it could not be found. It was finally decided that the child itself would be the definitive proof—but the mother and babe both died in the birthing.
"I was already looked at askance because I tended to pity demons and was not as ruthless about removing their heads as the paladins. The whole of it resulted in my exile and might have ended in my death if not for the way the high priests spoke up for me and if the man believed to be the next high paladin—who is, in fact, now high paladin—had not stood up for me so staunchly. So here I am."
Something important was missing from the tale, and it niggled at Neikirk like missing some obvious bit of an incantation that kept failing. But try as he might, he could not make the missing piece come to him. He did not press for it, however, reluctant to abuse the information offered by demanding more. "You could have told me all of this years ago, Master. Of course I have absolute faith you are not guilty of such a terrible thing. As to the demons, pity has never kept you from killing them to save lives. I have no love of demons, but I respect your reverence for life."
Cerant grimaced. "I almost told you a thousand times, but I hate even thinking about it. I want to forget about it, accept my life here, but after a decade of trying, I think it will never be. I let a great many people down with my exile, and I cannot forgive myself that."
"You were betrayed, Master. No one is ever prepared for that—or to blame for it."
"I should have just kept the peace and married her."
Neikirk shook his head. "It would have only made things worse in the end, and if, as you say, your brother was behind it all, no doubt he had something else planned to prevent that being the end of the matter. The guilt lies with the betrayer, not the betrayed."
Cerant nodded, but it was apparent he remained unconvinced.
"You do not favor women, Master. You and she both would have been miserable. If nothing else came of your brother's scheming, a marriage made in misery would have been equally damaging in the long run."
Shrugging, Cerant replied, "A man of my station marries for business, not pleasure. It is not outside the realm of possibility that I would have married her someday anyway, though at least in that case she would not have been merely a child." He swept his gaze over Neikirk, then met his eyes and said softly, "But there is no point in denying I would not have been happy."
A man of his station? Well, given Cerant's bearing and the ease with which he handled his wealth, the careless way he just assumed he was in command of whatever group he joined, it was not really a surprise to hear that he was some sort of nobility—or had been, at least. "The past is the past, Master. You have lived in Navath for ten years. You should contact your family, perhaps the exile might be reversed after so many years."
"Not for me. I shudder to think of circumstances desperate enough I would be recalled. And what would I do with you were I to go home?"
The words were a blow, all the more painful for being completely unexpected. Neikirk could not breathe for a moment, they cut so deep. Cerant did not want to keep him if he returned to Vindeia?
Unable to remain still, afraid of what he might say or do, Neikirk turned to climb out of the hot spring—and yelped in surprise when he was jerked back, his balance upset so that he toppled both of them into the water. He came up sputtering and trying to glare. "Master!"
Cerant, of all things, laughed. Before Neikirk could inform Cerant of his opinion on that, however, Cerant leaned in and dropped a quick, hard kiss on Neikirk's mouth. "My dear, I did not want to simply make the assumption that you would leave your home for me. For one, remaining with me would be a rather complicated affair that no man should have forced upon him. Two, it would require leaving Navath forever, and given my own agony over leaving home, I would never expect it of someone else."
"Master, I have never wanted so badly to throttle you," Neikirk said. He settled for shoving Cerant down into the water again, somewhat mollified when he came up gasping for air.
"Why did you do that?"
"Master, I am property here. I was handed over to the government when I was five and was property of the crown until you won me. If you tired of me today, you could sell me back to the crown or hold an auction of your own, and there is nothing that I would be able to do about it. To the best of my knowledge, there are no such laws concerning magic users in Vindeia. I may still be under contract, but I would be a free man. More importantly, I have waited several years for you to admit there is something between us and act upon it. If you do ever return home, why would I not go with you?"
Cerant laughed, sounding relieved and delighted, and said cheerfully, "You're right: I deserved the dunking."
"You will get yourself another one if you do not kiss me again, now we are done with all this discussion," Neikirk said.
Cerant smiled in a slow, hot way that promised all the things Neikirk had ever wanted, but had begun to believe he would never get. "Sometimes, my dear, I cannot tell who owns whom." He tugged Neikirk close to give the demanded kiss before Neikirk could reply. Shivering, Neikirk wrapped his arms around Cerant's neck and held him tightly, kissing back with everything he'd felt since Cerant had won him at auction.
"I think we should return to the house," Cerant said eventually. "Much as I would love to fuck you out in the open, we lack certain necessities and it is getting a touch too cold for such misbehavior."
Neikirk conceded the point, if with equal reluctance, and climbed out of the hot spring. He pulled on his tunic and gathered up his belongings, walking quickly back to the house, hastened by the looks and teasing touches that Cerant gave him the entire way. They had barely gotten through the door when Cerant took everything from him, cast it to the floor, and pulled Neikirk into his arms. Oh, Neikirk did approve of Cerant's finally letting go and giving in.